


Snow, Dreams, Wind

by theoceanpath



Series: Coronavirus Catharsis [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:27:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26124973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoceanpath/pseuds/theoceanpath
Summary: Masshiro na yukimichi niHarukaze kaoru...For a squirrel 🐿
Series: Coronavirus Catharsis [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2007124
Kudos: 2





	Snow, Dreams, Wind

Blue skies are watching you. Blue doll eyes, if dolls were meticulous, scratching, window-gazing things. Someone rolled up the clouds one day and out popped this untamable ball of fluff enthroned on your chair.

You name her after milkshakes— all of the cream and none of the cold— and the sea-green infinities of _Requiem of Heaven and Earth._ Her whiskers fan out like ice scars at the end of a rigorous practice; the clockwork swishing of her tail scatters fairy dust on the rug that you vacuum up in clumps. You like to imagine there's a secret code inscribed within the patches of her tail, some untapped wisdom as she spends the morning stretching out to ponder the unfathomed workings of the universe.

Or a fly on the glass. Whichever.

Her fur is silver, but purer, that brilliant shade when rainbow lights converge, or the tips of cirrus clouds, the knifelike flash splitting the horizon. The kind of white that drenches your eyelids with the sounds of a faraway world. Her tail is seafoam sputtering on weathered granite. Her eyes are a river. Sapphire, your friends call it. Lapis Lazuli. For you it's _Final Time Traveller_ blue. When you peer closely, your mind replays the first steps of _Etude_.

You watch her chase plushies across your bed. You grab one and throw it at her; she leaps out of the way. She's picky. She chooses one Pooh— one sakura Pooh— to adopt as her own, and she carries it to safety whenever you try to take it back. She curls up with her new toy, not on your lap, not yet; she curls up and you see the salmon carnation of her paws and your fingers inch forward to tickle her, just a bit. Her eyes open and look at you, and cross-examine you, and demand answers you don't have. Like, _why hasn't the sky run out of blue_ and _who is everyone hiding from?_ She rolls on her back, and you rub the silky dandelion tufts of her belly until the twin crystal oceans fade out. One final swoosh of her tail and she drifts off, leaving you to earphone-punctured silence.

Cats have a way of sinking their paws into your heart and never letting go. You are now slave and servant, ever adoring, ever ready for cuddles, sole provider of food, food, and more food. She knows you, braids and freckles, she purrs at the strangers outside and she purrs at you and she purrs at nonexistent spiders on the floor. When she sees the boy on your desk, she jumps.

 _Hanyu Yuzuru_ , you tell her. Japan's hero. And yours as well.

She acknowledges him with a hiss and a swat of her paw.

Seimei wobbles. A magazine falls. In your rush to pick it up, you almost miss how the throaty purr that follows is anything but triumphant. She's talking to him, you realize. _Cats recognize their own kin._ The cover page flutters and Zunda's gaze tracks it down, down, down, back to your hands and back to your desk, with a few more purred introductions, and from that hour onwards you call her a Fanyu too.

It doesn't take a week for you to learn that she's every bit as curious as Yuzu himself, with a strange fixation for wires and tech devices. She pounces across the room in short arcs, poking her nose into all your secrets, all your souvenirs— here a xylitol jar, there a stick figure mug— she's your bouncy, fluffy shooting star, as fated as the Tanabata. _Make a wish, make a wish_ , the song of nostalgia zips through rain-scented air. You wish yourself back to the home of fresh zunda. You wish for another mother tongue cocooning you in its jargon, so unfamiliar at first, so deeply ensconced in your bones now.

You tell her about Sochi and Pyeongchang. You tell her about Poohs streaking down the arena like meteors crashing, a thousand cheers and a thousand crimson suns. You swear to take her clearfile hunting through all the convenience stores and the raspy sounds she makes in response are your own secret language.

 _It's where I first dreamed of you,_ you explain, and she looks at you like she understands. You promise her cherry blossoms and the scent of Japanese maples. You map out the shrines you plan to visit on her fur. You take her with you in idyllic daydreams of another city, another countryside, another festival of sparkling lights. At night she's her own universe of slit moons and comet eyes.

And warmth.

You have class tomorrow. It's still strange and unfamiliar, and a little bit wrong everywhere. You miss the absence of screens between you and the person in front of you. But you have Zunda and Pooh and Yuzu, all your iterations of Yuzu, and the morphing shadows the four of you keep copy-pasting on the hundred tiny acres of walls and wood floors.

Outside awaits the sunlight, a world of promise and fear you've been thrust into about half a year ago. It was jarring when you first got back, different words everyone speaks, different trains, different signs, different food. Yuzu does not exist in your malls and groceries. Sendai is no longer a train ride away. You think of _gyoza_ , and _mochi,_ and _takuyaki_ , abrupt cancellations and sudden chartered flights, and you're too tired to cry. You want to hug Zunda. You want to hug _Effie,_ but you don't have a private plane to take you across the Atlantic. So you settle for Pooh, and you hug him tight, so tight. _Just-make-it-all-go-away_ -tight. Pooh is a good confidant; you understand now why he's earned a place in Yuzu's inner circle. Pooh _understands_.

A meow weaves into Pooh's silence. It's Zunda snuggling under your blankets to claim your pillow for herself. You stroke her between her ears like a princess, then tuck her in. Ten seconds later and she's a child in an amusement park again. She plays hopscotch back to your desk and inspects your collection of clearfiles, your other source of comfort in this messy, maddening world.

You watch her watch him. Half-hours fly and minutes no longer mean a thing and the clock is so useless you ask it to un-exist. Contemplating Olympic GOATs sounds like a better way to spend your afternoon.

You hear someone talking. You crank up the audio in response. Outside is too noisy and too quiet. Here is perfect. Pooh has his honey, you have your junk food, and your cat has just discovered the time-space travel capacity of Youtube videos.

The playlist moves on to _Notte Stellata_. Zunda watches, transfixed by the human-bird spinning and flying and leaping and dying, until the applause filters through and your eyes beam with pride and dewdrops. No, it's raining, it's probably raining. Zunda meows and you tell her it's too wet to go outside.

Her paws pad softly like cake frosting, ice cream, melt-in-your-mouth white chocolates. That boppable nose, that soft chin, those agile limbs, the unending sense of wonder that sends her tumbling through every inch of your house, the dark threat in her gaze when she meets her rival in the mirror— you find yourself thinking of Yuzu again.

Yuzu would love her.

The fake rain fakes itself away, and you find Zunda in a staring match with your treasure trove of Yuzu poses _._ She's doing some kind of vigil around _Origin_ now. She swipes at him playfully, a flash of pink surrounding trimmed sliver-thin knives before she retracts them at the last moment to stare at the set of dark-lined eyes fiercer than her own. His gaze is steady, daring as ever. Such a challenge deserves a worthy challenger, so she plops down and contemplates his existence while her tail smacks at the paper cranes nesting on the edge of the table. She purrs about things only cats know and Yuzu smirks in acknowledgement. To complete the experience, you play a looping video of Yuzu laughing and soon you're laughing yourself, as Zunda's expression transforms into a dozen photoshoot opportunities just waiting to go viral.

You bet Yuzu would win that game.

But you don't tell her that.

Instead, you finish your bubble tea, pick up your phone, and take a pic. _Blue Eyes in the Hundred Acre Wood_ , you caption it, where boredom sleeps in your wardrobe and life is quiet and safe and bliss.

Outside, the sun blinks, drenching the trembling world with free yuzu. You need a bit of fresh air right now, so you go to catch some. You open the door to bathe in that lemon orange shower, Zunda squirming past your ankles and Pooh nestled in your arms; you lift your eyes to the skyline and you finally hear it.

_You'll be okay._


End file.
